


Home is Where the Books Are

by DreamingPagan



Series: Graced [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: And the entire McGraw-Hamilton family is full of bookworms, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, In Which James Has Acquired Books, Other, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, all book titles are real, because the author is also a nerd, with the possible exception of Gates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: The captain likes his books, and as it happens, so does his family.





	Home is Where the Books Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sirenswhisper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenswhisper/gifts).



> This is at least partially based on an artwork that was posted on tumblr, wherein the Walrus takes a prize that is full of books and of course James must have them all. I'm with you James - I'm with you.

There is, Thomas Hamilton thinks, a distinct lack of James, and he does not like it.

The men have been coming off of the Walrus for the past hour. He has seen Gates, and Joji, and De Groot. He has spoken briefly with Muldoon, had an indifferent grunt from Randall - seen every one of the ship’s officers, in short, but the one he most desperately wants to see.

It is now afternoon. Afternoon! And still no James, and he tries not to worry - surely, Hal would have told him by now if something had happened. It cannot be that - but then where is James?

“If you’re looking for the captain, I wouldn’t hold your breath,” a voice comes from his left, and he turns.

“Why not?” There must be something in his voice that is sharp, because Howell - Doctor Howell, surgeon to Thomas’ darling, sometimes irascible James - takes a step back.

“I only meant that he’s holed up in his cabin,” he answers. “Wouldn’t expect to see him for hours, if that - said he wasn’t coming out for anything. You could try going down to the tavern, getting something to eat,” he suggests, and proceeds up the beach, leaving Thomas alone.

“Not coming out for anything?” he says. “James, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

There’s only one remedy for it. If Mohammed will not come to the mountain…

James, he thinks on his way out to the ship, had best have a good explanation at hand. There is very little in the world that can induce Thomas to engage in physical labor of the sort necessary to row, and his arms are aching already halfway out to the ship. On the way back, he thinks, James is doing his own rowing, and Thomas fully intends to have a full-body massage as well when they get home. With oil.

“James?” he calls, biting back curses as he pulls himself up the ladder and over the side. “James, it’s me.”

He looks around - and the man on watch points toward the captain’s cabin, not saying a word. Thomas nods thanks, and heads aft. They know him here, now - it’s a pleasant feeling, and he allows it to wash away some of his irritation at being made to wait. He knocks on James’ door, perhaps less impatiently than he might have minutes before.

“James?” he asks again, and hears a muffled thump. “James are you -”

He opens the door, and hears an alarmed shout. James throws himself across the room, and Thomas peers in to find his husband all but plastered against a teetering stack of books that stands next to the door.

“Don’t move another inch,” James pants. “Just wait a moment - just until I -”

He gives an almighty heave against the stack, and then steps back warily, eyeing it. Nothing moves, and he motions Thomas in.

“Close the door very, very carefully,” he instructs, and Thomas cannot help it - he laughs.

“James,” he chuckles, “my James. You’ve gotten us a library!”

“And a bloody huge one, too,” James answers. He grins. His hair has fallen out of its tie, Thomas notes, and he is down to his shirt sleeves. And there, in the middle of the pile -

“I very much hope that nest of cushions is as comfortable as it looks,” he laughs, and picks his way toward it. James helps him over a stack, and then they are sitting down together, surrounded entirely by their new library.

“Hal nearly killed me for it, but I couldn’t leave any of them behind,” James says, looking around. “I’ve found several works by Milton, a whole collection by Orinda - you’re going to have to translate the ones by Cervantes, they’ve been translated into Greek, if you please -”

“James, where have you picked up these cushions? They’re unbelievably comfortable -”

Somewhere outside the door, Mr. De Groot groans.

“They’ll be needing the lanterns lit by the time they’re finished,” he mutters.

*****************************************************

“If I am not back in the space of one hour, you may assume that they’ve trussed me up in the cabin or finally found a copy of Mrs. Davys’ _The Fugitive_ in good repair. As I doubt I shall ever actually lay hands on the thing, I expect to be back in short order.”

They are standing in the room that they have claimed as the library, and Miranda stands with her hands on her hips, surveying the shelves. Hennessey surveys the room as well - he knows too well what she is pondering.

“I have no idea where on earth I’m going to put all of them,” Miranda says, and Hennessey rolls his eyes.

“I’m certain you will find somewhere,” he answers. “If you would refrain from lining the walls of my bedroom, I would be grateful - I’ve promised Hal a proper reunion, which might prove difficult if we’ve a maze to navigate.”

This last, Miranda is amused to note, is said in a softer tone of voice. She gives him a smile, and Hennessey ducks his head as though in deference to her, but she does not miss the grin that makes its way across his features.

“Go and fetch them home and I’ll see if James and Thomas can’t be persuaded to spend the night with me at the tavern,” she invites. “We could all do with a bit of privacy tonight, I think.”

“I don’t imagine they’ll need much persuading,” Hal Gates says from the doorway. “Still - on the off chance they do, I think I’ll come along, if it’s all the same.”

Hennessey turns.

“You’ll hear no complaint from me,” he answers with a smile. “Is the wagon ready?”

“Aye. Come on - you can offer me part of that reunion on the way."

***********************************************************************

“Knock knock, time to bloody well put out the lanterns,” Gates says, and Hennessey does not quite manage to stifle a snort of amusement.

“That,” he says, “may prove to be a tall order.”

“It’s in the articles,” Gates points out. “If His Stubbornness in there doesn’t give a damn, James sure as hell ought to - they’re _his_ articles.”

“I think you’ll find it’s the other way ‘round,” Hennessey says dryly, and knocks on the door again.

“James?” he asks, and hears shuffling.

“A moment,” James’ voice requests, and Hennessey stands back, waiting. In the promised moment, the door opens, revealing a rumpled-looking James, who stands, outlined in light from the cabin behind him. Hennessey raises one eyebrow.

“Are you and Thomas quite well?” he asks, and sees the moment that James realizes that he is covered in dust and somewhat the worse for the wear for his day’s travails.

“Fine,” he answers, and rakes a hand through his hair to smooth it. It does little good - the result is that he is more rumpled-looking than before, and behind him, Hennessey hears Gates snicker.

“James,” comes Thomas’ voice from within the cabin. “Please invite your father and Mr. Gates inside and close that door - there’s a draft and if it blows out the lanterns at this stage of the proceedings I’ve no idea how I’m going to make my way out. I’ve no desire to sleep on any of the books.”

“They do not make good pillows,” Hennessey agrees, trying not to laugh, and James rolls his eyes.

“I beg to differ,” he answers. “Come in. You’ll never believe -”

“You’re right, I do not.” Hennessey peers through the doorway. “James - dear boy, correct me if I am wrong, but do I spot -”

“There are no bloody naval treatises,” Hal says from behind him. “Eirnin -”

“No naval treatises, but there _are_ several works regarding ancient military tactics and one rather interesting tome which I believe to be a translation of _La Flor des Estoires d'Orient,”_ Thomas pipes up cheerfully. “Rather hard to find in English, I believe, and the perspective is refreshingly - alright, alright, Hal, I’m moving, point taken!”

Thomas laughs as he speaks, and true to his word, rises from the stack of books, bringing with him the nearest lantern. Hal rolls his eyes, but moves back toward the doorway, having accomplished his goal with what Hennessey has come to refer to as the “scolding governess expression” he so excels at.

“You get more mileage out of that look than either of us shall ever get out of that horse,” Hennessey snorts, gesturing toward Daisy the carthorse who stands, waiting patiently at her hitching post on shore. He cannot, of course, see the brown mare, but he knows perfectly well that she has the capacity and the willingness to kick any would-be thieves, and the patience of a saint.

“It works, doesn’t it?” Hal rejoins, and Hennessey snorts.

“Only because the lad had too strict an upbringing,” he answers, and Hal nods.

“Aye, I know it,” he answers. “One day he’ll cotton on I’ve a soft spot for him and then I’m in real trouble.” He grins, and Hennessey turns back to find James moving toward them.

“Alright,” he says from somewhere behind what seems to be a moving pile of books, “we’re ready. I don’t suppose -”

Hennessey sighs, and Hal echoes him.

“Right, hand over that stack, you can take half that load Thomas is trying to carry. Eirnin -”

“I suppose one of us must go down first and carry the lantern,” Hennessey sighs.

Hal leans over and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you, love.”

“Don’t thank me, thank James for volunteering to row the boat to shore.”

“Tas -!”

*****************************************************************

“Miranda?”

The call sounds through the house, quiet as it has become. The sun has gone down, and though there are several candles burning, the house might seem empty - but for the larger amount of light emanating from the room they have turned into a library. Thomas pushes open the door a crack, balancing a stack of books in one arm - and gives a tiny, almost inaudible huff of fond laughter.

They are not the only ones who have been reading all evening, clearly. He pushes the door the rest of the way open, and turns to James.

“I think Miranda’s taken your advice on what constitutes an acceptable pillow,” he whispers, and James peers past him, then smiles.

“I’ll carry her, you get the candle?” he asks in a whisper, and Thomas nods. They pad across the room on silent feet, having taken their boots off already, and James leans in closer.

“Miranda,” he murmurs in their wife’s ear. She begins to stir - her breath shortens, and Thomas sees her shoulders tense minutely.

“James?” she asks, and Thomas cannot help it - a wave of fondness washes over him at the bleary look in her eyes, and the way that she pushes at the hair that has fallen into her face as she begins to pull herself off of the table and the book she has gone to sleep on.

“We’re home, darling,” James murmurs, and then scoops Miranda into his arms, her hands coming up to clasp about the back of his neck.

“You’re late,” she mumbles. “All of you. Your father and Hal -”

“Gone to the tavern for the night. They seemed rather eager,” Thomas murmurs, and then tries not to laugh as James blushes.

“Please,” he says in a pained tone, and Thomas can’t help but chuckle.

“Come along,” he says, and James begins to move. Miranda blinks once or twice, and then takes in her current position.

“I can walk,” she starts, and then yawns.

“There’s no need,” James promises, and she nuzzles in closer to his neck.

“Alright,” she mutters sleepily, and James laughs, and continues chuckling quietly all the way to their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Tas is the Cornish word for dad. As to the thing about lanterns being put out - the articles that pirates signed sometimes stipulated a time by which lanterns and such were to be put out, presumably to cut down on fire hazards and tired people doing dumb things with open flame.


End file.
